Denied to all but Ghosts
Page 36
“You mean you’re done with her?” asked Beckett, turning his head to look at Cavendish.
“Oh yes, if you recall we only used her as a means of revealing the puppet master, with Slingsby dead I think the link is broken, my only route back now is via young Asimov.”
“You’re not going to let the bastard who killed Slingsby off the hook are you?”
“I’ll take care of him, don’t concern yourself about that. You know, I believe him to be connected to the man who was killed in the hotel room in Plymouth.”
“You must tell me about your adventures in Plymouth,” said Beckett, who honestly did not give a damn about the events at that precise moment.
“I will, Thomas, but for now we have other matters to deal with. May I ask you a blunt question?” Cavendish smirked his lopsided smile.
“You usually do, why stop now.” Beckett sounded distant and troubled.
“Have you been sleeping with Dr Spelman?”
“No, I have not slept with her.” Beckett spoke slowly, articulating each word in isolation.
“I thought not, there is no emotion in the world as powerful as unrequited love, except perhaps unconsummated love, and then the intensity of recently consummated love. The emotional love may remain but its physical potency declines; we’d all be burnt out emotional wrecks otherwise, frazzled by high octane hormones.” Cavendish smiled to himself, pleased with his analysis.
“So you’re not going to have a go at me?” asked Beckett, returning his gaze to Cavendish. The German now considered the cobra had morphed into something far more benign, a young Labrador pup, perhaps.
“Come on, Thomas, I’m the bad-assed Untersucher who bites the heads off babies, who feeds on the blood of virgins, well I do in my fantasies.” Beckett laughed at Cavendish’s joke. "Who the hell am I to moralise about you? You strike me as the sort who is quite capable of beating himself up. My lack of an English upbringing does give me the benefit of not being as sexually repressed as you natives. Maybe I should be grateful for my German education. All I ever wanted to do was invade Poland.”
Beckett reflected that Cavendish was working very hard to repair their relationship, two attempted jokes in as many minutes was a supreme effort.
“Why didn’t you tell me it was Emily who looked after me on Sunday night, why did you let me think it was you?”
“I never said it was me, Thomas. I never thought it important to tell you,” lied the Untersucher. “Does it make any difference to how you feel about her?”
“No I guess not,” replied Beckett. “I feel guilty, Marsh. I shouldn’t feel the way I do about her.”
“As I said, I am inured to your British sexual vexations.”
“Marsh?”
“Yes, Thomas?”
“Is there a bar in this place?”
“Of course there is.”
“Then lead on McDuff, I need a stiff whisky, but don’t let me have more than two.”
“I won’t, we have a special dinner tonight. I don’t want you, how do you say, ‘rat-arsed’.”
“Very good, Mr Cavendish, I see the time you have spent with me has not been entirely wasted.”
Cavendish stood up from the bench.
“I haven’t said how smart you look, Thomas, a very fine suit,” he offered his hand to Beckett and helped him up off the bench, “I guess the time you have spent with the Good Doctor has not been entirely wasted either.” Cavendish put his arm around Beckett’s shoulder and walked with him back to the Seminary.
“If you were me, Thomas, what would you do next? I’m not sure what our next move should be. I’ve recovered the Romanov items, had I lost them then I’d be packing my bags now. As far as I can tell, there appears to be no more leaks, but I can’t be sure.”
“Wasn’t it the Goldsteins who revealed the leak?” proposed Beckett as they entered the house.
“Indeed it was, Thomas.”
“Well, isn’t it usual to revisit the scene of the crime, we weren’t exactly in Bath very long, were we?”
“It certainly wouldn’t do any harm to speak to the Goldsteins again. I think I’ll give them a call, no time like the present.”
Cavendish stood in the hall, dialled Simeon’s mobile phone number, and stared up at the clerestory window, which cast a silky light upon the worn wooden flooring.
“What do you want, Untersucher?” said Simeon gruffly.
“Good day, Simeon. I was wondering if it would be possible to have another chat with you and Miles?”
“When?” asked an exasperated Simeon.
“As soon as possible, this weekend perhaps?”
“I’d say that is out of the question. Unlike you, Herr Untersucher, my brother and I have decided to have the weekend off; Miles needs to rest after the all the trouble you’ve caused.”
“And where might you be going?” asked Cavendish pleasantly, he was glad Simeon was back to his abrasive self.
“That’s none of your bloody business!” said Simeon angrily.
“Simeon, everything is my business.”
“Fascist! We’re going to stay at Yoxter Manor, It is playing host to the Cheddar and District Fete and a friend of ours is exhibiting his floral displays there.”
“And very good I’m sure it will be. I might even come down and see it for myself.”
“I don’t believe a word you say, Untersucher.”
“Neither do I, Simeon. Goodbye.”
CHAPTER 39. THE SUSPENSION OF REALITY.
“You must keep still,” implored Cavendish.
He stood behind the photographer in front of a full-length mirror in Beckett’s bedroom attempting to fasten a black bowtie around the elusive neck of the fidgeting Bristolian.
“It’s all very well for you, but these trousers are too tight,” grizzled Beckett.
“Stop moaning, no one will notice when you’re wearing your jacket. Nobody is going to be looking that closely anyway.”
“I don’t see why I can’t wear my new suit.”
“Well it’s hardly nineteen thirties is it?” corrected Cavendish. “There, it’s done. Put your jacket on and take a look.”
Cavendish helped Beckett into the black dinner jacket and sidestepped to his right allowing Beckett’s reflection to fill the frame of the mirror. Beckett’s face took on a look of deep concentration as he flexed his shoulders and scrutinised his image.
“What do you think, Thomas?”
“I think I look like an extra in a crap Agatha Christie film,” answered Beckett dismissively.
“Well, I think you look very smart,” encouraged Cavendish, and as an incentive added, “I’m sure Emily will agree with me.”
“Do you think so?”
“Definitely.”
“Well, I suppose it does look pretty cool, in a nobby sort of way,” conceded Beckett grudgingly. He glanced at Cavendish’s refection in the mirror and wondered how he managed to look so effortlessly stylish in the white dinner jacket he had chosen to wear for the themed dinner party at Flash Seminary.
Beckett felt a great deal more relaxed following his drink with Cavendish earlier that day. Already Flash Seminary had ensured that the tensions associated with Emily’s arrival now appeared like a distant escapade. Kate Watercombe, desperate for a social event, had organised the evening for the five recent arrivals and for a surprise guest. The other residents, including Asimov, would dine in the refectory, whereas Kate’s party would be served in the splendour of the dining room.
Promptly at seven o’clock, Cavendish and Beckett descended the ornate staircase lined with portraits of the Gray family. Beckett habitually ran his fingers between his neck and shirt collar in a futile bid to loosen its restrictive hold. His antics ceased as he discerned the mellifluous sound of a piano, the melody clearer as they reached the hallway. As the men entered the stately drawing room via the anteroom, Beckett's allegory of finding himself in an Agatha Christie movie manifested itself, for he was regaled by a most surreal scene.
“My, my, how handsome we look,” she purred as she posed before them. She kissed Beckett on his cheek and then turned to Cavendish.
“And may I say how much smarter and sweeter smelling you appear, Herr Cavendish,” said Kate as she offered a lingering kiss to his scarred cheek, “so much more constrained and flaccid than you appeared this morning,” she added mischievously before walking over to the sideboard to recharge her glass.
Beckett gave Cavendish a questioning look to which the inquisitor replied with a suggestive, puzzled shrug of the shoulders.
In the corner of the room stood Christian Searsby, immaculately dressed in the uniform of a butler, looking suitably mournful and obsequious.
“I would imagine he rather enjoys the role,” whispered Cavendish after noting the baffled look on Beckett's face, “I’d guess the subservience thing gives him a big kick, especially with Kate.”
Yet for Beckett, the most astonishing scene of all was the sight and fabulous sound of Josh Houghton sat at the piano playing a rendition of ‘Love is the sweetest thing’.
“Close your mouth, you look like you’re catching flies,” suggested Cavendish as he escorted the reluctant Beckett across the red piled carpet to the piano. Josh winked at Beckett as Searsby the butler approached.
“Would Sir like a drink?” he asked Cavendish in almost reverential tones.
“Whisky and soda please, Searsby,” answered Cavendish.
“And for Sir,” the butler asked Beckett.
“Eh, the same thank you.” Searsby bowed respectfully before collecting the drinks, balancing a tray and two tumblers.
Beckett felt awkward, as if someone had not handed him the script, yet his discomfort was forgotten as he detected the excited sounds of female voices nosily descending the staircase. Even Houghton played a few bum notes as he craned his neck as if he had been granted the gift of sight through solid walls.
Blanch and Emily entered the room together, both looking a little sheepish but it was clear that Blanch was looking forward to the anticipated reaction she knew they would earn, judging by her incessant chatter and her reassurances to Emily whilst negotiating the staircase.
Blanch appeared the more confident of the two and wore a vibrant blue twenties style flapper dress with matching headband. Emily wore a similar style dress but in a softer, pastel peach which suited her fuller figure.
It was Blanch who spoke, her Brummie accent more pronounced due to her voluble excitement.
“We know the dresses are a bit out of period, but we couldn’t resist them!” she declared animatedly. Houghton had never seen her look happier. Kate Watercombe stepped up to greet the girls and gave them both an affectionate hug with kisses.
“You both look great, you could have told me, I could have dressed the same, on second thoughts maybe not, I don’t quite cut it these days.” Kate beamed ecstatically, delighting in her role of the hostess.
Houghton abandoned the piano and greeted his sergeant before moving on to Emily, who was plainly overwhelmed by her welcome and inadvertently backed off from Houghton before leaning forward to accept the kiss on her cheek.
“Sorry,” she said uncomfortably, “This feels all so strange.”
“No worries, Emily, just enjoy the evening,” replied Houghton generously giving her the full broadside of his white-enamelled smile. Cavendish stood before Emily and he took the safer option of taking her hand and leant forward to kiss it lightly whilst bringing his heels smartly together.
“Very Prussian, I know,” he whispered, “but very effective.”
Emily smiled up at the tall blonde with uncertainty before looking for Beckett’s reassuring presence. She gave him a ‘what do you think?’ smile with a sideways slant of her head. Beckett smiled feebly back; he was totally out of his comfort zone in such a grand and formal setting. He really was living the dream. Emily joined Beckett at the piano.
“You look stunning,” said Beckett.
“And so do you, the DJ really suits you,” replied Emily before whispering, “stay close please, Tom.”
“Are you alright, Em?” asked Beckett, protectively seeking her hand.
“Yes, I’m fine,” smiled Emily, “I don’t think I need Blanch’s favours tonight. I feel safer with you nearby, that’s all.”
Before Beckett could ask what Emily meant by ‘favours’ a voice boomed from beyond the double doorway of the drawing room.
“Where is she? Where’s my lovely Katie!” Everyone turned to see the resplendently dressed man who stood in the doorway with his arms outstretched as if in mock crucifixion. Beckett guessed him to be of a similar height to himself and of a similar build, and placed him in his early fifties. Perhaps his most distinctive feature was the widow’s peak, which shaped his short dark hair whilst his face was lit by a huge infectious smile, flaunting his fine dental work.
“Come here my Katie!” he demanded loudly. Beckett was unaware of Kate’s swift advance towards the demonstrative man; his eyes were riveted to the enthrallingly dapper newcomer. Without warning Kate jumped into his arms, and Beckett watched captivated as she was spun around on the spot, her gown billowing as she whirled round and round the drawing room.
“Fletcher! Watch the bloody hair-do for Christ sake!” she screamed in fright and delight as they continued to revolve around the room.
The carousel came to a stuttering end as Kate was dumped heavily on the once luxurious carpet. At length, both Kate and the visitor staggered drunkenly arm in arm over to the assembled guests who had gathered around the piano to watch the unfolding spectacle.
“Ladies and Gentleman,” announced Kate unsteadily as she adjusted her glasses, “may I introduce Sir Fletcher Dobson.”
Only Houghton was familiar with Sir Fletcher and stepped forward first to greet his superior. Blanch appeared somewhat overawed as she was introduced. Emily handled the introduction with practised ease, Sir Fletcher appraising her for a second or two longer that he had intended. Beckett simply went through the motions as his turn arrived. Finally, Kate led Sir Fletcher to Cavendish, the infectious smile had not left the Civil Servant’s face and Cavendish was the only person in the room who resisted the impulse to reciprocate the smile.
“Marchel Cavendish, at last! You know you are the first Untersucher that I have ever met in this country, about bloody time too. Still that might all soon change, eh?” Sir Fletcher cast a furtive glance towards Emily before offering Cavendish an exaggerated conspiratorial wink as they shook hands.
“Perhaps, Sir. One lives in hope,” replied Cavendish soberly.
“Indeed we do, dear boy, indeed we do!” He delivered a powerful slap to Cavendish’s back by way of acknowledgment before searching out his Katie.
For Beckett the suspension of reality continued at dinner. They entered the dining room through the ornately carved stone doorway from the main hall. Three arched windows looked out over the forecourt and above the long table, the intricately carved wooden panelled ceiling blended seamlessly into the wooden surround above the marble fireplace. The original, heavily embossed wallpaper had darkened over the years and bestowed the room with a deep, luxurious tone that complimented the intricately patterned deep pile carpet. Candles shimmered in the gilded mirror that rested above the mantelpiece as the roaring log fire imparted the room with an orange radiance that flickered in the overhead chandelier.
Kate joyfully hosted the meal and recounted many stories relating to the house and its previous occupants, each story becoming ever more lurid as her wine consumption increased. Cavendish saw Kate in a new light. He watched her performing before an audience, playing the hostess and performing the role with consummate style and ease.
Kate smiled inwardly as she
furtively scrutinized her guests and watched as the seminary exerted its singular magic upon them. Each visibly loosened up, none more so than the pretty academic, who initially viewed each of the dinner guests with barely concealed distrust, spiritually clinging to the photographer.
Now Dr Spelman manifestly thawed before her eyes, radiating a newfound confidence that was scarcely conceivable only an hour before. Perhaps the enigmatic Cavendish appeared the least seduced by the harmonious house, yet who knew what was going on in the head of the anomalous German.
After the meal, they retired to the drawing room where the conversation returned to the present, initiated by Sir Fletcher.
“I have an observation, Dr Spelman, you don’t seem very phased by your surroundings and you haven’t asked a single question regarding your future?” Emily sat down next to Beckett on the long settee.
“At the moment, I don’t rightly care about my future,” she looked up at Beckett before continuing, “my future is now, I’ll worry about tomorrow when it comes.” Sir Fletcher looked long and intensely at Emily before continuing.
“Very profound I’m sure but not very practical. Kate and I, along with Marchel if he is in agreement, would like a word with you in the morning. We have a proposition concerning your future that you may wish to consider.”
Emily looked suspiciously around the room, but all she noted were nods and smiles of reassurance. Blanch gave her an encouraging thumbs up whilst Houghton regarded his sergeant from the other side of the room. He thought how quickly the new blood of the organisation accepted the weirdness of their new world with total ease. Was he the same all those years ago? Almost certainly, and the painful days were tolerated when evenings such as this were put on for their benefit. Would Emily Spelman be similarly bewitched?
Kate noticed Cavendish reach inside his pocket and extract his packet of cigarettes.